You Can Only Run For So Long
by John Locke
Summary: The worst thing in the world has happened... He has turned into his father. Through only the darkness can the truth be discovered. Violence in fourth chapter
1. The Darkness Chokes

**You Can Only Run For So Long…**  
  
It was dark as only it can be in the shadows of night. Dead silence as the hour of twilight crept upon the earth. The overcast sky blocked the struggling pathetic light from the stars, choking the light before it even pushed it's way through the thick dense substance. With no light, none at all the land saw evil. Oh the stories the dirt could tell if it had the proper equipment. The dirt told tales of death and destruction, but also tales of a promising new life. A gentle wind danced across the learned soil as a gleaming sinister shoe stepped onto it, out of the tall grass. Followed by another, the shoes were filled with a towering, deathly pale form. Determination etched onto the features of the man as the gleaming shoes reflected the newly found light. A strange artificially produced light that was intently focused onto the path of the shoes.   
  
When the light moved up in a tantalizingly slow place, it met the faded brick of a wall. Oh no not just a wall, but building. A whole row of homely looking buildings. The edges lined with glittering panes of glass, advertising many different things. Sweeping slowly, the light found its destination. An undersized opening that reached to the tops of the buildings where it spread out. The shoes found their way to the opening, and without hesitation stepped between the brick walls. The poorly paved walk way made the shoes click softly stirring any small creature from its deep slumber and run the other way. The light guiding the man hit something in the looming darkness.   
  
A swift movement and the something was now situated in the front of the man. The only sound made was a short intake of breath through the slit like nostrils on the now terrified features of the man. The red eyes met a pair of intense emerald irises, the red holding great fear. An expression that wasn't in the mans repertoire for obvious reasons suddenly made its way onto the short list. Long white fingers clenched tightly as the red eyes followed every movement of the 'green eyed monster' as he would call it. The way it walked, and scowled reminded him of those oh so painful times he had repressed. The green irises grew younger, as it's body had. Into the form of a youngster. A runt. One of those types to be ridiculed. Ears too big for his head, and nose too small for his face. A horror struck expression was firmly painted onto the tall mans face as he backed away. Hitting the side of the brick wall, the toddler came after him before it shifted into the mirror image of the young man it was before, with added knowledge, and premature wrinkles.   
  
The thin cracked lips open and it spoke. 'You're no better than your muggle father.' "Shut up. Just shut up!" The older man cried out as it slid along the wall, towards the far away entrance of the opening that lead to open air. Clean fresh air, not polluted by the stench of fear that was radiating off of the man. Turning violently, the man stumbled in his haste, tripping in the bellows of his cloak and falling ungracefully onto his bottom. The other figure loomed over head, sneering distastefully down. A familiar situation came to mind. _He was certainly not his father. NO! He couldn't be._ 'It's time to face your fate Tom.' Scrambling to get away, he somehow got to his feet and started running away from the younger man.   
  
The youthful man in the distance melted back into the darkness, as the light had gone away. It's sanctuary had been replaced, and it had felt rejuvenated. Any trace of the stench of fear had been sucked into a whirlwind and brought to the shadows, one spot in particular. Satisfied with itself, the shadow lay dormant, but only for a while. One can only run so far from the past.

**A/N Just so you know... the ' ' is the boggart speaking, and " " is Voldemort**


	2. The Fire From Within

**The Fire Dies Within**  
  
Red eyes surveyed the room in a moment, but returned to something that glimmered pathetically. The small wisps of smoke floated upwards, as only heat can as the dying glow of orange-red flames. Who had but a few flickers left in them. A strong sense of compulsion pushed him forwards, to kneel before the grate, to watch the struggling last few breaths of oxygen the fire had left in it. The burning embers looked like it was struggling, just as the man had ever since his encounter. His fearful encounter. Eyes steeled over like they usually were, but this time in a new sense. Not from anger, but from pain. Pain he had thought was repressed, but had been brought back in an instant. He blew lightly on the dying embers. They begged to either be brought back to life, or put to their misery, and were starting accumulate again, due to the fresh breath of air. Just like his emotions had been brought back to life. A thing he could not afford now. But he was paying dearly for putting it aside.  
  
One simple breath, one simple minute, nothing was simple anymore. Just as the oxygen fueled fire, fear fueled life, both reactions to become greater things. But at the same time destroy lives. One breath of oxygen and one life. His life had destroyed so many others, just because of him. The thing he detested, abhorred. What he was becoming. No, what he had become. He was a spiteful, hatred filled man, no just a shell of a man, void of a real, full life. Because of his _father's_ own hatred. Which fueled like a breath of oxygen, a raging fire of hatred for anything un-pure.   
  
He was exactly what he despised. Something that tortured others to the point of devastation. Taunting them for being different, for lacking certain appeal, or just plain old being different. Or for the fact that they had made his life miserable until he was old enough to grow a real backbone and stand up for himself. Wizards had been making muggles lives terrible by flaunting their magic in the early days, but so cruelly taking back the gift they had so commonly shared up to that time where both races had betrayed each other. His father hated his mother for being a witch, therefore leaving her, and him. He was abandoned by a man who need not know him before he left and forgot about him. Hatred was the reason, hatred for things different. Well, the two weren't so different were they? Like father, like son.  
  
With a stronger breath, he blew the dwindling flames out. With everything good, there is always too much of a good thing. Too much oxygen and the fire went out. The fire in his soul to demolish everything he so detested was only deterred, the path of the deconstructive fire moved. Onto what he truly, and purely hated. The fire had not died yet, but the cold was coming, just as rapidly as the dark had when the embers glowed no more. 


	3. Bleding the Noble Blood

**Bleeding the Noble Blood**  
  
He did not know how long he had stared down at the dead embers in the complete dark before he was oh so rudely jerked from his thoughts, his mind. He was somewhat brought back to reality with a simple word. "Master?" An empty word, a scared one. One that need not apply to him any longer. "What do you want Severus." The long sigh following the simple sentence gave the visitor an eerie, unshakable feeling of regret. "I've got the information you needed. I'll leave it on the desk…" The voice was eager to leave. Just like everything else in his life. Easy come, easy go, or maybe not. Its always hard to get things in life, and even harder to let go of them. With an uneasy interest, he slowly turned towards the dimly lit desk area. A large envelope sitting in the middle of the desolate top. The slow and unsteady footsteps echoed off of the thick stone walls. It was such a short walk, but entirely long. It was time to see the information he was longing to see not but three days ago, but wanted nothing to do with at the moment.

Before he had the time to blink, he was standing the small circle of light, harsh, intruding light. It seemed to go into his soul and bring out his troubles, and lay them out in that one envelope. One single piece of paper, folded into a holster of lies, betrayal and deceit. All he had ever worked for, hoped for, and dreamed of. All in one single piece of lifeless tree. His future was now in his hands, more in a physical sense as well as metaphorically. With a swift deft movement from his eerily steady hands, the top of the sealed envelope lay open, a stark white piece of plain muggle paper. It glared up spitefully at the man. The reflection of the painfully white paper in the dubious scarlet of the irises made the man put the open envelope back down on the desk. It was his future, glaring up at him like the predatorily gleam of the vampire's fangs before sucking the life out of its victim.

This was it, the moment of truth, whether or not the fangs would hurt. He plunged his hand into the envelope, and ignored the dull pain as it sliced into his skin. One iridescent drop of blood slid across the elongated finger, and dropped onto the now botched paper. It had one spot of evil, of life on its deadly paleness. One spot of lost life amongst the old death of the woven page of truth. The sharp contrast of the blackest ink on the page was harsh to look at without rapidly blinking. The words spread around the page in uniform lines. Lining up to be demolished into thoughts, and ideas. Deconstruction of the English language into evil, harmful things wasn't always such a bad thing, up until now. The words danced through his mind, creating a butterfly effect of thoughts. Oh the brilliant possibilities. In what seemed like forever, a grin, a feral grin, appeared on the lips of the man. There was indeed a way.  
  
A way to escape the harsh reality of it all. To deny the living lifestyle of everything around him, or to become deaf, and ignorant. Whichever way brought the animosity of life and death to an end the fastest. He was ultimately supposed to kill again, the only one that could kill him was that Potter brat. And vise versa. Oh how this was wrong. This was wrong enough to make the man start to laugh, pathetic as a sound it was, but a laugh still indeed. There would be no more deaths, no more than one.


	4. Fate Can Never Change

**The Glimmer of Death Compels Me  
**  
-----Just being, there was nothing more to explain, being is just breathing and breathing is living, so in essence by being, he is living. Without doing much, he could still live, no strings attached, no harsh details to work out. Just be. But just being wasn't an option anymore. Fate has played its role in giving many opportunities to just be, and no, he wanted more than just the simplicity of just being. Simplicity was not his strong suit, so being was out of the question. He yearned for power, for darkness reigning, darkness that was bestowed upon him, and anything but darkness was the epitome of simplicity. Darkness was etched onto his very moral fiber, it was his way of life, it was his life. His memory, his present, and most importantly not his future. His future was oh so dim as the things that brought out the light he so needed to suppress, but no longer could. Light was struggling, and choking him. A choking sensation, one of death, and yet ironically dark. The light was no longer white and pure, but gray and muted, as it was both a good thing to some, and a very bad thing to others. In this point in time. It was neither good nor bad, just there, being perhaps. Like the possibilities he had passed up. Or he had passed up.  
  
-----It all came back to _him_ and what _he_ had done. Now there was no line between him and _him_. All he wanted to do was kill _him_ for abandoning him, and making his life a living hell. He never wanted to be like him, he never signed up to be a hateful, spiteful bastard. He didn't want this to happen, he didn't mean for this to happen. But things happen, unexplainable really, but they do. Mostly unintentionally, and that's how he got here. To this very place being the man that he was, all because of him.  
  
-----With a gleam, the sharp edge of the long, lethal blade took shape in his hand, with a mere will of the brain, and a twist of the wrist. The glimmering hope shone on the metallic surface of the object. Hope for an end, one of which would finally, rid the world of the monster. The one who had started the whole problem. If the long forgotten paper had said it was Potter to kill him, then it would indeed be Potter. It all revolved around Potter. He would vanquish the world of his evil. But how they were wrong. Wrong, just like everything else the world had said about his motives, his reasoning's. He didn't have many, but they were there. So blatantly obvious. Just like the deathly obviousness of his blade in his hand. Potter would indeed be slaying the most evil, most foul creature of all tonight. Once and for all.  
  
-----Long pale fingers wrapped tightly around the dark, foreboding leather bound handle. Gripping it properly in his right hand, he brought it down to his left wrist. A sharp throb emitted from his wrist as the cold metal was warmed from the almost nonexistent skin. He had left the note, which in turn would make his memory fonder, more important and more well known. It was sure to be a big thing, his epiphany, betrayal, and confession. There was already a small horizontal slice underneath the blade, from where his blood, the draught of life, had been drawn, so he could write such a note of his life. The harsh color contrasted his skin again, as the metal was pressed deeply, willingly, into the pale skin, drawing out a long thin vertical line. The maroon color beaded up and spilled over the side of the trench, onto the flat platform of skin.  
  
-----A swift slash of the hand, the dagger dug another deep trench parallel to the first. The blood ran together, forming one, long stream, steadily drip, drip, dripping onto the cold stone floor. Forming a pool of a new life, a life forgotten, and a life avenged. The darkness was creeping, forming a haze in his mind. An unforgiving color that faded in and out slightly growing stronger as he kept on bringing the knife down, filleting his own arm. With no strength left in his hand, the bloody dagger dropped from the once nimble fingers, hitting the floor, echoing with a muffled clang in his own blood. Brought arrogantly to his knees by his own dagger, his own craftiness, his own will and thoughts. The darkness growing ever near, the last words muttered for no one to hear escaped the now deathly pale lips, "The bell tolls for thee, father."  
  
-----The ringing was growing louder, as the darkness grew ever closer. It seeped into his brain, as roughly as the water is swayed on the eve of a storm. It encompassed every last will, and memory. Blacking out all those brutal, conniving thoughts. At last, the bastard was dead. No longer had he sustained in controlling him, his future. His future was put to rest with his body. He was finally rid of the muggle life voiding him of his true, and utter potential. He had finally bled the noble blood for the last time. The darkness overwhelmingly took the last breath from the lungs, and a wave of despair shook the earth in the hour of twilight. 


End file.
